


The Cougar's Cry in the Maury Sky

by AJGhostWolf



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), NCIS, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alvez Whump, Animals, Bishop Whump, Blake Whump, Bounty Hunter, Cops, Cowboys, Crossover, Ducky Whump, Fornell Whump, Garcia Whump, Gen, Gibbs Whump, Horses, Hotch Whump, Hurt, JJ Whump, Kasie Whump, Lewis Whump, Maury Range, McGee whump, Morgan Whump, Ochoco Range, Oregon - Freeform, Outlaws, Palmer Whump, Plane Crash, Prentiss Whump, Reid Whump, Rossi Whump, Sagebrush Sea, Serial Killer, Simmons Whump, Team Bonding, Team Dynamic, Torres Whump, Torture, Vance Whump, Walker Whump, Whump, Wild animals, bau, woods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJGhostWolf/pseuds/AJGhostWolf
Summary: Guess who decided they wanted to revisit the Criminal Minds world of writing? This guy! I've been working in an area that has me thinking a lot about the plot of another C.M. fic, so here we go again!An emergency landing put them back in Prineville, of all places, three years after their first visit. The team, (who is made up of my favorite characters just because I refuse to follow the rules of death) decides that while they wait for their plane to be repaired, they want to catch up with some old friends. And find NCIS in town, investigating another string of brutal, confusing murders, also being investigated by a "private investigator," a bounty hunter. When an old mutual friend turns up among the bodies, the BAU team is determined to help the NCIS team and the hunter find the killer, and bring him in. Or at least, bring him down. Because you don't mess with the feds. Or the Montanans. Or the Oregonians. Much less all three.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Pronunciations of the ranges for anyone wondering:

Ochoco: "Oh-Cha-Co," 

Maury: "Maow-ree" (Almost like Mallry) 

Malheur: "Mal-He-Ore" 

Owyhee: "Owe-I-Hee" 

Deschutes: "Deh-Shoots" (** ** _NOT_** ** Des-Ca-Hoot-Ayes, Jamie and Sam, Jesus Christ)

Hey y'all I just officially graduated and will now hopefully have more time (haha yeah right) to crank out some stories for ya! I've been excited to write this so hopefully it gels well and keeps going on as strong as my previous work did, which in hindsight I had some issues with, so hopefully you'll like this one as much as or better than the last. Anyway, thanks, and enjoy!

Chapter 1:  “Murphy is an asshole, but his law is the dumbest thing that happens to be right.”

It had been a relatively easy case, as mass murders go. 

The unsub, Yancey Morr, had been targeting ice cream truck drivers because of childhood trauma he had associated with them after one ran over his older brother on accident, killing him. As cases went, it was somewhat amusing and only three drivers had actually been killed. 

Truthfully, Reid hadn’t realised that Portland still  _ had _ ice cream trucks, and also didn’t really understand why the Portland P.D. couldn’t have solved it on their own, but  _ c’est la vie _ . It was over, the affectionately named ‘ _ Ice Cream Creamer _ ’ was in prison, and everyone was ready to go home after five days in the slums of the big city. 

The team was now twelve strong, and all eleven travellers were crammed into whatever secluded corner of the plane they could find. Morgan was stretched out on the floor in the aisle, snoring softly with his arm over his eyes. J.J., Tara, and Prentiss were all somehow curled up together in two small seats, like a pile of cats and also sleeping. Hotch and Reid sat across from one another, playing chess. Rossi was next to Reid, sketching out designs for a new home he was thinking of building out in the woods. Alvez and Matt were engaged in some conversation up by the cockpit, where they sat on the floor and drank coffee. Walker was next to Hotch, reading quietly. Alex was sitting on the arm of Walker’s chair, reading over his shoulder and occasionally dipping in to Hotch and Reid’s conversation, or making a suggestion on Rossi’s plans. 

It was a peaceful, pleasant atmosphere everyone was enjoying. 

There was plenty of coffee and a round blue tin of shortbread cookies on the table that someone had brought. Rossi always stashed a flask of dark caramel whiskey in his coat pocket and had passed it around a few times. It was of mid-shelf variety, very good, fairly expensive. Delicious on its own or mixed in coffee. 

Everyone was as content as they could be, without warm beds or spouses to be snuggled up to. But sometimes after a case, it was your work family you needed to be with, just for a bit. When you have to change something in your brain to be able to deal with the bad guy, to  _ become _ him to catch him, the waning off period was sometimes best spent alone, with people that understood. 

Not always, but sometimes. 

The plane suddenly and uncharacteristically lurched to the left, throwing everyone into the nearest wall uncaringly, because it was a plane. 

Morgan smacked his head on a seat, Rossi, Alex, and Stephen were slammed into the cabin wall, Reid and Hotch against them, and the snuggled up girls went sprawling and rolling into Morgan, who let out an appropriate “ _ Oomph _ !” noise. Matt and Luke were sitting with their backs against opposite walls, so they just fell a little to one side and Luke jammed his legs against the far wall. 

Rossi, a known  _ lover _ of turbulence and the possibility of suddenly  _ no longer flying _ , went sheet pale and started having a mild anxiety attack, hands repeatedly gripping the seat arms. 

Morgan gently shoved confused people off of him and lurched up to Luke and Matt, who were already prying the cockpit door open. 

It was deafening of wind, papers flying everywhere, the air moving so fast it drew tears from their eyes. And it was  _ cold _ . Decompression, not a good thing. 

The co-pilot was trying hard amid everything to adjust for the sudden drag, but the main pilot was facedown on the control panel. 

Matt grabbed the pilot by the shoulder and yanked him back, recoiling in horror when he saw half the man’s face, gone, chunks of plane debris still littering the smears of blood and brain and bone on the dash. It was his side of the cabin with the hole in it, the force of it so strong that Luke and Morgan had to grab Matt and the doorjamb. 

Matt got the co-pilot’s attention with hand signals, staring into the poor man’s glassy and terrified eyes and mouthing,  _ What happened _ ? 

The co-pilot, Luke vaguely recalled that his name was Kurt, just gave the classic and panicked  _ I don’t know _ look before redirecting his attention to the controls. He had blood and brain matter from his dead partner all over his face and suit. Luke also realised that if any of them could hear anything, Kurt was probably also understandably just screaming. 

He scanned his instruments with wild eyes, suddenly jabbing a finger excitedly at some little dot on the radar and pointing down at the ground. 

“Airstrip?” Matt felt himself shout, but didn’t hear it. 

Kurt evidently read his lips, though, because he nodded frantically and again obsessed over his controls, struggling to keep the plane from veering so far left that it would go into a spin. 

Luke shoved himself back into the main cabin, where everyone was looking scared and confused, and yelled over the noise, “We’re going down, strap in!” 


	2. "You Know You Can Legally Ride in The Pickup Bed if Cab Capacity is Filled?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thought I'd put out a chapter before I go to work for the night. Hope y'all like it, it's mostly just filler but it's scene setting. Anyway, leave your thoughts and your suggestions and enjoy!

It was a rough landing, but it was still one of those ‘any landing you can walk away from’ adages. 

EMTs met them on the airstrip, first rushing away the dead pilot and the copilot, who had ruptured eardrums and was in shock. Morgan had a slight concussion, and Rossi was in mild shock and slowly coming off the anxiety attack. Everyone else just had minor bumps and bruises. 

One of the resident mechanics, who literally resided in his shop, was rousted out of bed and called to investigate the cause of trouble. 

He determined that a faulty engine on the left wing had failed and exploded, and a chunk of shrapnel had blown through the cockpit at just the right angle to partially decapitate the pilot. 

The pilot was pronounced DOA, and Kurt was admitted to the ER for shrapnel wounds in his chest from the pilot’s skull, which provoked a simultaneous shudder from everyone who got that announcement. He was Life Flighted to the Bend hospital twenty minutes in. 

Morgan tried to fight off the EMTs that wanted to take him to the ER, too, but Hotch ordered him directly to shut up and take it. So he did. 

Garcia was in contact with them in less than twenty minutes. 

“What happened? How are my boys and girls? Is everyone okay?” 

Hotch, who had the fortune of receiving the call, was tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Garcia, everyone’s fine. Morgan just has a mild concussion. Everyone had to be treated for minor eardrum ruptures. There was some kind of malfunction with one of the engines. The pilot was DOA, and the copilot was flown out for emergency surgery. We have to wait for a replacement engine, and a qualified mechanic to install it. HQ called in a no-fly order until this ‘faulty’ engine can be inspected for possible tampering.” 

“You don’t think this could have been an act of domestic terrorism, sir?” 

“I don’t know, Garcia. All I can say for sure is that we’ll be staying in Prineville until anything can be said for sure. Would you mind sending over some paperwork for us? I’ll send an email detailing exactly what we’ll need, in addition to incident reports. If we’re stuck here we might as well work.” 

“Yes sir, I’ll get right on that.” She was quiet for a beat, then said, “Prineville, sir? Isn’t that where we had a joint case with NCIS, like, three years ago?” 

“Yes. It’s . . . . an interesting place.” 

“Yes sir. I’ll get to work on the paperwork for you now. Please be safe.” 

“Thank you, Garcia, we will be.” And Hotch hung up, still pinching the bridge of his nose. He was very, very tired of things going wrong. 

The resident mechanic wandered up, stained coveralls and steeltoed boots giving no doubt about what he did for a living. “Y’all grounded here?” 

Rossi, still a little shaky and trembly, said, “Yeah. Until all this can be checked out.” 

The man scoffed. “Knowin’ the gov’ment, that means you’ll be here a while.” He gestured toward town with the beat up wrench in his hand. “Plenty of hotels. Best Western and Country Inn are a couple good’uns. Most eateries open up at six or seven in the morning; we still don’t have any twenty-four hour joints. And I got a pickup you can borrow, to get you down there.” 

Rossi nodded to him. “Thanks, we’ll look something up.” 

The man then wandered away, in a typical unhurried pace. 

The team gathered up, and Hotch looked around them. “Well, we’re going to be here for a while, so I recommend grabbing your bags. It’s going to be a cold ride down.” 


	3. “She’s Built Like a Burlap Sack Full of Bobcats; She’s Got it To-gether”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- C.W. McCall: Old Home Filler-Up an’ Keep on a-Truckin’ Cafe  
> Listen to Wolf Creek Pass for a good laugh!

The truck was a single cab. So the four girls squeezed in the cab together and the other six piled into the back. It was indeed a cold ride down the long and winding grade into town, and both recommended hotels were on the other side of town. It was probably forty degrees and not getting any warmer, being two in the morning in the desert. Reid vaguely recalled that in this area, the temperature would continue dropping until sunrise, and even then it would only be a marginal change for an hour or so. 

Despite the unpleasantness of the trip, they all got checked in at the mostly empty Country Inn, by an exhausted-looking clerk, two to a room with three of the girls agreeing to share a room to round out the cost for the Bureau. They took their key cards and travelled to their respective rooms, setting a meeting time for eight the next morning, when they could rent a couple cars, return the mechanic’s truck, and pick Morgan up from overnight observation. 

They all slept like the dead. 

* * * * *

At eight-oh-five, they all grabbed a cup of ‘like making love in a canoe, fucking close to water’ coffee and some breakfast. Rossi, Walker, and Luke nominated to take the truck, rent two vehicles, and retrieve Morgan. 

Prentiss, who had saved a few phone numbers from their last Central Oregon escapade, was already calling around to see who was still here, alive, and/or well. 

And then the day clerk found them. Their card and information had been declined. They would have to leave and figure it out somewhere else. Sorry. 

His eyes said that no, he really wasn’t. 

So as the team walked through the halls in an angry knot, Alex mumbled, “Goddamn Federal Credit. Never, ever works right.” 

They walked the short distance down to the Club Pioneer, which those that had been there three years previous remembered fondly. They were just opening their breakfast buffet, a long table down the main dining hall filled with eggs, bacon, ham, pancakes, waffles, biscuits, gravy, and plenty else. And they kept the coffee hot and coming. 

Alex discreetly paid for the group with her own cash and made a call to Rossi just barely beneath bitching about the whole thing. “And of course we won’t get more than a little hazard pay while we’re here, because we aren’t ‘working.’” 

Rossi sighed. “Yep. Everytime I come to this part of the country, I swear. Something  _ always _ happens. And it’s never a  _ good _ thing, either.” 

“Well, I heard that some locals call this area the Devil’s Three-Strip Track. I don’t know what the three-strip means, but still.” 

“I’ve heard Dead-Horse Hills, too. It’s just  _ that _ kind of place.” She felt his shiver through the phone. “I’m starting to wonder just what the hell’s buried out here, ‘cause whatever it is it’s some damn bad luck. Or a haunting, but I dunno.” He laughed at himself. “Yeah, this place is just kind of creepy. Did Prentiss get ahold of a girl named Ashton Hall by chance?” 

Alex glanced over to the table at the capable-looking woman who had introduced herself as Ash just minutes ago. “Yep. Tough looking.” 

Rossi laughed. “She still packing?” 

“Clocked it when she walked in. Carries  _ really _ well, too.” 

“Heh. She’s probably  _ just _ twenty-one now, the legal Oregon age to pack a pistol. She was still carrying three years ago when we were up here.” 

“You didn’t try to take it?” 

“Hell no! Would you?” 

Alex barely contained her laughter. “Hell no I wouldn’t.” 


	4. “His eyes was wide, His lip was curled, and his leg was fried, And his hand was froze to the wheel, Like a tongue to a sled in the middle of a blizzard”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've no shame when it comes to title names, as you can see. Anyway, a Gibbs chapter. Enjoy!

A big dust devil whipped lazily across the plateau Gibbs, local Sheriff’s Deputy Mack Gates, and tracker/bounty hunter ‘Wolf’ rode across. All three men wore range clothes and had bandanas over their noses and mouths to combat the dust, squinting eyes against the sun. Gates was wearing sunglasses, but Wolf and Gibbs weren’t. They had to look for evidence. And while Gibbs knew he was a first-rate tracker, Wolf had made a professional living off of his almost sixth-sense tracking abilities. He picked up on many a thing Gibbs hadn’t even noticed, trailing their quarry up to the plat’ really quickly, considering. 

They took on unspoken, subconscious roles. Wolf tracked, Gates provided local insight on the terrain and scouted out away from the group, and Gibbs watched their backtrail and flanks for potential ambush. It was the typical efficience of men who had learned good, hard lessons about doing law work well before this. Or bounty work, as the case may be. 

They had been riding and tracking for close to four hours and had started hedging into an active excavation/construction site apparently slated for two solar farms and substations. A couple machines lumbered along, but Gates told them that they were on the far south side of the project and unlikely to see more than a dozen workers there. 

And the trail they were following went straight through the site, angling up toward the north end. 

One of the construction workers stared hard at them and grabbed a walkie from his hi-vis vest, continuing to stare as he spoke into it. His frustrated and confused expression clearly showed all the explaining and repeating he was having to do. Gibbs could practically hear the conversation from there and controlled a grin. 

“Uh-oh, the jig’s up, fellers,” Gates said cheerfully, reining his horse toward the man. “We been busted.” 

Gibbs and Wolf exchanged bemused glances and followed behind him. 

The worker and Gates swapped nods of greeting and the man said, “I don’t know if you all know this, but this is a private construction site. I’ll have to ask you to leave and come back through the official entrance if you have business here.” 

Gates and Gibbs showed their badges almost simultaneously. 

“NCIS.” 

“Crook County Sheriff’s Office.” 

The man looked between them, slightly confused. “Well, ah, I radioed in and you’ll have to wait for the security guy to show up to verify all that.” 

Gates just nodded and sighed. “Fine. He on his way?” 

“Said he was.” The man shrugged, clearly trying to wash his hands of the situation. 

“Uh-huh.” Gates looked  _ real _ thrilled of that. “You gonna babysit us until he hauls his ass up here?” 

The worker bristled a little at Gates’ blunt phrasing, but just said, “That’s looking like the case, yeah. Believe me, I’m no more excited about it than you are.” 

Gates snorted, but didn’t pursue it further. “Y’all gettin’ any rain up here?” 

Gibbs and Wolf tuned them out and just kept careful watch of the roads, observing with faint interest a little red Honda car zipping up the road at high speed, probably over twice the speed any gravel road was supposed to be travelled on. It had the word ‘Security’ decalled across the hood. 

“You can be done babysitting,” Gibbs told the worker, who had been joined by a few other guys interested in the three random cowboys chilling out on their job site. He jutted his chin briefly at the car, which was still a couple minutes away but coming on fast. 

They looked, shook their heads at the interruption, and walked back to their work. The original guy hesitated for a second, then evidently decided he had better things to do today because he turned and followed them. 

The security guy parked a respectful distance from the horses and levered himself out of the little car, staring them over like  _ ‘Holy shit they weren’t kidding.’ _ He finally said something into a radio of his own, waited a beat for a response, and then finally walked over. 

“You guys are cops?” he asked quizzically. 

Gates was inches from laughing mockingly, but merely scoffed quietly and lifted an eyebrow at the man. “Fuck else’d I be doin’ out here in eighty degree weather, huh? Sheriff’s office has an ongoing investigation in this area, we have a warrant.” He gestured at himself and then his two companions. “Gates, Gibbs, Wolf.” 

The guard looked relatively affronted at all that, but cleared his throat and moved right on. “Yeah, well, you understand that I’ll have to verify all that?” 

Gates gave him a scathing look, but nodded begrudgingly. “Fine. Just get it over with.” 


	5. "Keep Your Nose to the Grindstone"

Ashton still had her old brown cowboy hat, a little dustier and more beat up, but still looking tough. Both her and the hat, actually. 

She grinned and stood to shake Rossi’s hand when they finally made their way to the restaurant a good hour after his and Alex’s call. “Agent Rossi, good to see you again.” 

Rossi smiled back. “I see you haven’t made it to Montana yet.” 

“Nope.” She pulled back the edge of her coat to expose the Sheriff’s Deputy badge on her shirt. “Picked up a new profession.” 

Rossi whistled. “Wow, good job. Proud of ya, girl. What made you decide to do that?” 

“After workin’ with y’all, I decided to start heading toward small-time law enforcement. I’m a horseback Search-and-Rescue and K-9 specialist now.” 

Rossi shook his head in admiration. “Lord, lord kid, you’re pretty damn good at gettin’ where you wanna go real fast, aren’t you?” 

Ashton just laughed and sat back down with her coffee. “Anymore, Agent, you gotta be to get  _ any _ -damn-place, much less where you wanna be.” 

Tara exchanged surprised looks between Ashton and the original team. “How old are you again, Ash?” 

Ashton smiled. “Twenty-two yesterday.” 

Tara half-slumped back in her chair in amazement. “Wow,” she eventually managed. “You have some . . . . insightful and tough dedication. That’s pretty unique.” 

Ashton shrugged. “Cowboy raisin’, ma’am. You do whatcha gotta, and a damn bit more besides if y’can.” 

* * * * *

“You finished yet, rent-a-cop?” Gates called out to the security guy, who had been in his car for the past ten minutes presumably taking pictures of their identification and radioing his base team or boss or whoever. 

The man looked up sharply, face tightening, before forcing a smile and yelling back, “Yeah, I think I’m all good.” 

He passed back their I.D.’s and stood there a minute, just staring. 

“Need anything?” Gibbs eventually just asked. 

The guy hesitated, then shook his head. “Naw. Just . . . . be careful of all the holes and shit out here.” 

Gates grunted an unimpressed noise. “Sure thing. Bye-bye.” 

And they rode away, Wolf giving Gibbs and look he couldn’t decipher as anything other than maybe irritance or amusement. Hard to tell with the man named ‘Wolf.’ 


	6. That’s Cowboy Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well y’all it’s been a minute, sorry I haven’t updated anything in a while, I’m working two jobs and trying to buy a house and trying to get married ... Just a little busy haha. But anyway, I finally finished a chapter up so here it is, hope you enjoy it and leave your thoughts, I love to read comments and they honestly make my day! Enjoy!

Ashton went outside and made several phone calls before she settled down with the team for lunch, making quite sure hers was under her own dime. 

“So,” she said after two and a half cups of coffee and a few bites of a chicken sandwich, “A few things. I’ve found a place for you to stay. I’ve got a little ranch just a dozen miles out of town, a spare room and a bunkhouse alongside. I can send the couple of folks that work for me out to a line cabin to ride stock for a week or so.” 

She held up a hand to silence the polite protest. “Don’t even bother, it’s the only place in town that’s open. 

“Next, thought you might be interested to know that NCIS is also back in town. Agent Gibbs and a Sheriff’s deputy are out in the field right now.” 

Several people sighed. Rossi said quietly, “God what  _ is it  _ about this place?” 

Ashton didn’t comment on that, simply settled back in her chair with cup of coffee and stated, “Since y’all don’t appear to be busy until your plane is fixed, I’ve got a half dozen horses just ready to be started. If you’re up to helping, anyway.” 

Several of them smiled at the idea, and at the thought they’d really only packed business clothes. The thought of Hotch riding a horse in his suit made Rossi snort. He had to repeat it aloud and earned a laugh from the rest, and even a smile from Hotch. 

Ashton gave her usual lazy half-smile and drawled, “I have some stock already broke-in if y’all want to ride, but we’ll put Morgan and Reid on some of the green sprouts and see how long they hold on.” 

Another burst of laughter swept the table and everyone finally relaxed. 

*****

Wolf was three or four lengths ahead of Gates and Gibbs, picking his way down a slight slope of bunchgrass and sage, when he stopped suddenly and threw a hand up in classic ‘Wait!’ fashion. 

Mack and Gibbs pulled their horses to a halt and Gates pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Thirty-ought-six, a rifle that easily brings down elk and bear. Not a pleasant one to be shot with. Gibbs rested a hand on his pistol. 

Wolf, who had had a rifle in his hands the entire time they had been awake today, circled his horse for a moment, staring hard at the ground and up into the surrounding country, and both NCIS and Deputy felt their hair rise. Even the normally uptight tracker hadn’t acted this keyed up until now. 

He reined back toward them and, using his body to shield the movement, used his hand to gesture at a big cluster of malapai-like lava rock jutting from the ground behind him, junipers gnarled around it, probably half a mile in diameter and tapering up to a faint point, fifty-some feet above. It was just one of many they’d seen between folds of scrub land and rimrock, but it was exactly the kind of place any of them would pick to make a stand. 

The sniper in Gibbs easily spotted a good dozen good positions their man could be scoping them from, and he felt the ‘time to get the hell into cover’ instinct rear up. 

Wolf took a weed from his saddle horn (he constantly picked fresh bunchgrass stems as they rode and tucked them into a crack in the leather) and started chewing on it. Conserving water and giving him something to occupy himself, Gibbs supposed. It was cheaper and less odorous than smoking, which he was certain Wolf normally did when he wasn’t on a track. It was hard to stay unnoticed while prowling around when you stank to high heaven. 

“This is some of the worst kind of ground to track on,” Wolf said as he got closer, way too far away for their man in the lava-rock to hear. “But I’m sure he at least passed through them rocks.” 

Gates looked around a second and eventually said, “He wouldn’t have just gone up there to pass by, he’s gone way out of his way to get up there. He’s still in there.” 

Gibbs an off-smile. “Do we back off or take him ourselves?” 

Gates grinned. “Let’s go say hi.” 

*****

The team hit the library to print out some of the paperwork Garcia had sent over before loading up into the rented sedans. Four to each and three (Alex, Tara, and Walker) with Ashton in her Rubicon Jeep. 

Once papers were in hand, they headed back across town and eventually turned on the old Paulina Highway they knew so well. 

“Of course she bought land out here,” Morgan said to his car group, already feeling car-sick at the thought of the  _ very  _ meandering road. At least he was driving. 

The ranch was just thirteen miles out (Reid commented  _ immediately  _ on that), and up a gravel driveway probably another mile and a half long. It was rolling country even here, with eight foot tall sagebrush and hundred year old junipers choking the draws and the occasional ponderosa and fir stands on the ridges. A fairly big log cabin sat facing them at the head of a horseshoe of outbuildings, a machine shed and various equipment storage on their left, cabin’s right, and a barn/shop hybrid sat their right, with a round pen and several corrals and loading pens alongside. There were a few cows in one of the pens, but the rest (six total) had horses. 

It was a damn good setup, an expensive one, and certainly not a brand new one. Definitely not on a Deputy’s pay. 

Everyone parked next to a few cold flatbed pickups sitting in front of the shop and unassed from the cars. A smaller cabin everyone correctly guessed to be the bunkhouse sat back between the main house and the shop at a forty-five degree angle. Two horses stood hip-cocked at the bunkhouse porch. 

“Alright,” Ashton said, getting the group’s attention. “I gotcha here, you gotta decide who sleeps where.” 

Everybody exchanged glances. Eventually, Hotch said, “The girls can take the main house.” 

Naturally the guys agreed, they were tough and they could handle it, they said. The girls all kind of rolled their eyes and let them, they’d prefer to be closer to the showers. 

Ashton just laughed along and helped them unload their stuff. 

Two men came out of the bunkhouse after awhile, wearing chaps and leather cuffs and dirty cowboy hats. Both were bearded and looked, for lack of a better term, kind of mangy. But they were nice and shook hands and helped carry boxes and bags around. 

As soon as everyone’s belongings were sorted out, the group met back outside on the front porch. It had started snowing, and in just a few hours at eighteen hundred (six p.m.) it would be dark. 

Ashton, again, broke the silence. “Kirb, you have enough supplies?” 

Kirby, the cowboy with more grey in his hair and a gnarled scar on his chin nodded as he rolled himself a cigarette. “Yep. We’ll do a final check and feedin’ in the mornin’ and then we’ll head ‘er on out.” 

“How far are you going?” Reid asked. 

The other cowboy, Clancy, regarded him with a slightly unimpressed look. He must have decided that he wasn’t going to criticize a Fed because he eventually said, “Prob’ly twenty miles all told. Eight or ten as the crow flies.” 

“Wow, that’s a ways.” Rossi looked around. “How big is this place, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Five thousand acres,” Ashton said, face unreadable. “My ancestors homesteaded it originally back in the 1850s. And after my father died, my name was on the title.” 

“How many miles is five thousand acres?” Morgan  _ immediately  _ asked Reid. 

“Just under eight square miles,” Reid shot right back. “Seven point eight-one-two-five, to be exact.” 

Clancy and Kirby gave him a look of mixed awe, confusion, and maybe irritance. Cowboys, the team had learned those years ago, did not like smart asses or know-it-alls. But they did, in a strange way, respect them. 

Ashton redirected everyone’s attention. “Kirb, Clancy, you alright to share the bunkhouse with these fellers tonight?” 

Both men looked instantly pained. “We’ll sleep in the tack room, if it’s all the same,” Kirby said, looking like he’d bitten into a crab apple. 

Cowboys. They never change. 

“That’s fine, and you’ll be up riding line cabins as long as you want, ‘cause the team’s probably gonna be here for a week or two.” 

Both ranch hands just nodded, not asking why and not terribly caring. 

“What are line cabins?” Reid asked, ever eager to learn more information about the area. 

“Little shanty cabins built for ranch hands to stay when they’re workin’ too far from home,” Clancy told him before he spat tobacco juice off the porch into the scrubby yard. He dug a rusty skoal can from his back pocket and repacked his bottom lip with the contents. “We’ll be out brandin’ and taggin’ calves, checkin’ stock and game cams, mendin’ fence, fixin’ the cabins, checkin’ roads and timber and creeks, you name it. Place this big needs a lot of maintenance in a-lots of places.” 

“Where do you get all the supplies to do everything?” 

“We keep the cabins stocked with wire an’ posts and brandin’ irons and food and what all. Anything else we need we just pack in.” 

“And you’re taking horses?” 

“Yep. Only way to get to most of the places up here. ‘Specially in the snow.” He glared from under the porch at the grey sky. “And ‘ppears it’s gonna do just that.” 


	7. CJ5 With a Four-Wheel Drive

Kirby and Clancy left soon after, going to finish up whatever chores they had left while there was still light enough to see. The team and Ashton retreated into the warm house and built a fire. 

While coffee was brewing, (it was  _ never _ too early for whiskey or too late for coffee with Ashton) they lounged around the spacious living room. Morgan stretched out on a cowhide just in front of the fireplace, still nauseous from the drive up and being pretty vocal about it. 

Hot cocoa was also made and passed out beside the coffee and a big tin of cookies. 

“Sorry to hear about your father, Ashton,” Hotch said as he warmed cold hands on his coffee mug. 

Ashton focused her stare on the rifle on the fire mantle. “Don’t be. He was a bastard.” Her smile was ghostly. “I was only in the will because he forgot to change it.” 

No one had anything to say about that, unsurprisingly, so she changed the subject. “I got hold of McGee yesterday, said they’d come out to say hi tomorrow afternoon.” 

Emily squinted into her lap. “Aren’t they working a case?” 

“Only getting dead ends. Figures they’ve done everything they can in that goddamned Bend for now.” 

Everyone smiled. The local feeling for Bend was not very good. It hadn’t been, from what they could tell, for a long time. 

Ashton shook her head, plainly dismissing the subject. “But anyway, I’m gonna start with some of those horses tomorrow. You’re welcome to help if you want, but the house and property for you to do whatever you want.” 

“What do you do to ‘start’ them?” Reid was clutching his mug of coffee with a slightly wall-eyed expression from the caffeine, sitting very close to the fire and still shivering. 

Ashton silently threw him a Navajo blanket. “Gentler version of breaking them in. I want them to be . . . . kinda like dogs, wanting to learn and be your best bud. You train a horse like that, he’ll keep cattle and coyotes and snakes off of you. It’s generally pretty handy for when you’ve got a calf on the ground to doctor or brand and mama’s pissed off. They can be sold for a lot more that way, too.” 

“What breed are they?” 

“Three quarters are scrub mustangs recovered from BLM and national forest. They’re mostly a mix of random abandoned horses from the last seventy years. The rest my father bred specifically, they’re mixes of Bulldog Quarter Horse, Morgan, and Appaloosa.” She gave the off-smile. “Appaloosa is the only one I’ve ever had a problem with; generally they’re pretty but they’re assholes. Other than the warhorse blood, he’d have never bred horses that way.” She waved a hand in the way a delving expert does when they realize they’ve dove further than most people were interested. “Generally I think the scrub mustangs are smarter, anyway.” 

Reid leaned forward with his jittery eyes sparkling with interest, looking like a very fascinated five year old. “Bulldog Quarter Horses?”

Ashton couldn’t help but smile, it was a subject she loved, too. “A subtype of Quarter Horse with bigger muscles and, well, a tougher body. Blended with the endurance and stock-savvy of Morgans, and the warblood and spirit of Appaloosas, you can get a damn solid stock horse.” She then laughed. “But y’know, of course, usually those expensive horses turn out to be less than duds, and the fifty-dollar scrubbies, nine times out of ten, turn out to be the best cow ponies. You make plans and you hear God laugh, an’ all that.” 

She stood up. “Well, folks, I’m gonna get some sleep, long hard day tomorrow. See y’all in the morning.” 

* * * * *

“I’m a reservist with the National Guard, too, and would have gone to ‘boot to be an MP for them if I didn’t have a full time job in this ranch.” 

“And you’ve got full-time with the Sheriff’s Department too.” Tara shook her head slightly. “That’s a lot to do.” 

Ashton gave her off-smile and poured a cup of coffee. “Hell, better to be busy than not, I don’t need extra time to think about anything, that’s for sure. I do a good enough job of that even when I’m busy.” 

Rossi and Hotch wandered into the kitchen, in dress pants and t-shirts. 

Hotch accepted a cup of coffee, then gestured at the door. “We’ll be going into town to pick up some better clothes, do you need anything?” 

“Thanks for the offer, but no, I should be fine. Whatever you guys need.” 

Hotch gave her his own off-smile. “Thank you. We’ll pick up lunch, too.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the best idea of the country I’m referencing, watch a video by YouTuber Coyote Works that he just posted today (as of right now) by name of Winter Truck Camping Adventure — Sub Freezing Sleeping in a Softopper Truck Bed Canopy. In the video he’s in the exact area I used to ranch in.

“Garland Baker!” Gates yelled out, rifle butted against his thigh. 

His horse shifted underneath him as a rifle barked, the slight move taking the path of the bullet from his chest to his shoulder. The big man was nearly thrown from the saddle and dropped his rifle to his lap, barely catching it with his left arm even as he tried to get his horse off the trail and into cover. 

Wolf and Gibbs, having circled around right and left respectively with their rifles to flank Baker, both spotted the flash from the gun and fired at the same time. Baker yelled out and the rifle dropped from the outcropping, bouncing once before disappearing into the rocks. 

“Gates, you alright?” Gibbs yelled back to the Deputy, who was circling his horse and trying to hold onto his .30-06 with only his left hand. 

“One in my right shoulder!” Gates called back, swearing as the pain kicked in. “Goddammit, Dunny,  _ quit it!” _

After a while of circling his horse finally stopped side-stepping and rolling his eyes back, and Gates slid out of the saddle cradling his ventilated shoulder. 

Wolf was scaling the rocks to make sure Baker was really incapacitated, so Gibbs made his way back to Gates. “Anything broke?” 

Gates looked up at his seemingly unconcerned tone, but said, “No. Just got the meat. Where the  _ fuck _ did he get a rifle?” 

“That’s good.” Gibbs dug a red pack out of his saddlebags. “Let’s see how bad.” 

Wolf’s voice echoed from the top of the rocks. “He’s gone!” 

Gates met Gibbs’ eyes. “Well, I’d say pretty bad.” 

* * * * *

Ashton was circling a dun colt in the round pen and had a live audience in the BAU as a white pickup pulled into the driveway. She grinned and stopped swinging the lead she’d been using. “Uh-oh folks, here comes JT. Biggest baddest gunfighter in the West.” 

JT unassed from his Sheriff’s bronco pickup, a broad grin stretching his mustache. “Oh, bullshit, Hall! Who’s your buds?” 

Ashton intercepted the colt and clipped the lead back to his halter. “I ‘magine you’ve got something important to come all the way out?” 

“Yea-up.” He put a boot on the bottom rail and draped his arms across the top bar, still smiling. “State’s got us on a raid tonight up Juniper Canyon, a few of us need to be there and we need a K-9, so you’re up.” 

“Fantastic,” Ashton said, gesturing for Reid to open the gate. She led the dun out and dropped the lead across the rail. “Mind handing me that brush box, Reid? Thanks.” She started to brush out the colt, looking across his back at JT. “What time?” 

“Does now work? We need to get geared up.” 

“JT, it’s noon. What’s the rush?” 

“Feds. NCIS is with the State on this.” Ashton stopped brushing and met his eyes. “What?” 

She gestured a hand around at the audience. “JT, meet FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Must be Fed week for us.” 

* * * * *

Paulina is a troubling place. The town was established in 1882, named after a Paiute Indian Chief and appropriately haunted. Paulina the lake is west of Paulina the town by just over 70 miles as the crow flies, if a crow would ever fly that far, in a totally different county and part of a totally different culture. Didn’t absolve it from the absurd and abundant happenings of central and eastern Oregon, though, because that kind of bad medicine transcends distance. 

Or at least, so McGee was told by the, well,  _ eclectic _ man that he remembered all too well, still wearing his greasy buckskins and looking half into insanity. Tanneway the tracker was still an odd man, but he gave them the trail the killer had taken to drag the body in, and where he’d gotten back onto a (probably illegal) dirt bike and left the area. 

The dead Navy sailor had been found when some fishermen hooked the body loose from where it had been wedged on top of a hot spring vent. The sailor wasn’t meant to be found; his belly had been cut open and rocks piled into the cavity. Fish and other aquatic life had already begun taking a toll, and I.D.-ing would be, as Torres eloquently put it, a bitch. 

They wrapped the scene up, told the Forest Service they needed to find a way to dredge their lake, and hauled ass to Prineville. The raid was happening with or without them, but they’d damn well better be there or Gibbs would have everyone’s heads. 

And there was only one head they wanted rolling right now: the suspect’s. 

* * * * *

Life-flight picked Gates up from a low hover, keeping the junipers out of the rotors, and headed ‘er out for Bend’s trauma rooms. Leaving Gibbs and Wolf with an extra two horses, rifle, and ammunition. 

Before they radioed in for helicopter-help, Gates loaned all his earthly possessions to the cause, or at least all those in a ten mile radius. 

So Gibbs sent Wolf tracking (‘slowly’ and ‘from a safe distance’ were words mentioned) while he waited with Gates and refamiliarized himself himself with the .30-06 and .45 Ruger pistol. 

As soon as Gates was stabilized and flying, Gibbs and his three horses took two hours to catch up to Wolf, who had thoughtfully left bits of cloth on branches every now again to guide the way. He was laying belly-down on a rise when Gibbs finally found him, hat off and rifle laying next to him in the dirt-sand. Thankfully, he wasn’t shot or dead, just studying the valley below as Gibbs wormed his way up beside him. 

“Gates okay?” 

“Yep.” Gibbs got Gates’ binoculars up and started looking around, avoiding looking in the direction of the sun to lower the chance of reflection. “Where is he?” 

“Either in that group of rocks or gettin’ further away,” Wolf spoke from the edge of his mouth. “Saw somethin’ disappear into ‘em, might’ve been a coyote.” 

The  _ but I don’t think it was _ remained unsaid, but Gibbs heard it. 

“Alright,” he said, moving his focus to the rocks. “I’ll circle to the southwest, try to get beside him.” 

As he started squirming away from the skyline, Wolf glanced down and said, “Leave the extra horses here, you don’t need anythin’ else givin’ you away.” 

Gibbs just nodded and kept moving back. Taking the animals would bother him, but leaving them bothered him a little more. If Baker managed, somehow, to slip behind Wolf, he would have all of the supplies and several more advantages. But if Gibbs took the horses and Baker heard them he’d just rabbit again. And Gibbs was getting awful goddamn tired of chasing him. He had better things to do and better places to do them. 

“Gibbs,” Wolf quietly called down. “If he boot-scoots again, I’m takin’ one horse and goin’ after him by myself. This shit’s drug on too long.” He mentally added,  _ And I’m done watchin’ anyone else’s ass but mine.  _

The ever-dreaded crunch of a rifle lever stopped him and Gibbs cold still. 

“And just what the hell are you two doin’?” 


End file.
